


David and Goliath

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, i need to jettison this out in parts if i ever have any hope to finish it, one last jamisco for the road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: The ball was his smooth rock, his right leg the sling, and the goal posts, James had always imagined, as the goading eyes of a giant.Snippets of James' childhood, his time in Madrid, and his time with Isco.





	1. Chapter 1

James remembered being small. Too small to to fill out his cousin’s old training kit, too small to protect the ball when pressured by older, stronger boys. He was never one to back away from a challenge however, treading a fine line between daringness and self-preservation as he mazed through tackles that would certainly leave him hurting afterwards. The field in Cúcuta was mostly cracked dirt, and the grass—or what was left of it—brittled from the rainless summer. Dodging a challenge meant one less bruise along his shins, staying on his feet might allow the scrapes on his knees to finally heal, and scoring the match winning goal might finally, _finally_ earn him a spot in Envigado’s youth team.

Nothing felt impossible when James had the ball at his feet, even as he grew tall and strong and rose through the ranks of his childhood club, his talent and finesse catching the eyes of suitors from France, England, and Spain. Nothing felt impossible, as he earned a number and a name in the radiant yellow of his country, the crowd cheering, _el diez, el diez_ , as he emerged from the tunnel to face other countries with more wealth, more resources, more history of success than his humble, beloved Colombia.

The ball was his smooth rock, his right leg the sling, and the goal posts, James had always imagined, as the goading eyes of a giant.

~~

James had a stutter growing up, the kind where his thoughts flashed too quickly and his lips couldn’t catch up, leaving him gasping and stumbling and struggling for words. His stutter made him painfully aware of the nuances of speech that felt so inherent in others, thoughtful pauses or natural disfluencies that were charming in their sparsity.

James loved to hear people talk and recognize the melodic rise and fall in their voices, the hums, the drawls, and the unintended sounds that made their speech uniquely theirs. James loved to hear people talk, but to respond and to converse, that was a different story.

His stuttering improved considerably as he grew older, but not without years and years of effort and hard work. Even so, James could not shake away a certain of degree of shyness when faced with microphones and flashing cameras as he stepped onto the biggest stage of his career.

“Than—Thank you—” He inhaled deeply, braving his best smile as he calmed the prickle of nerves inside his chest. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity, to play for the greatest club in history.”

~~

James remembered watching football with his cousins on the flickering television in his childhood home. It was an August afternoon, a tepid winter day in Cúcuta, but James and his cousins had their eyes on England, the day Manchester United unveiled their newest signing—a Portuguese prodigy of only 18, who would take England by storm with his mesmerizing dribbles and devastating speed.

_He plays on the left,_

_He plays on the right._

_That boy Ronaldo made England look shite._

~~

Sometimes when James felt nervous, his stutter would come back, more prominently so when he talked to _el Mister_ , _el Presidente_ , the heedless Spanish press (and occasionally, more often than he would like to admit, Cristiano.) Cristiano was his teammate now. Cristiano was his _friend_. Nevertheless, even as they greeted on the training field, James found himself more focused on their handshake than Cristiano’s wry smile.

His teammates often teased him for his star-struck shyness, his unusual stutter, but never to the point where his feelings were actually hurt. They were a team after all, which lauded the fluid creativity of Spain, the audacious flare of Brazil, the disciplined organization of Germany; football was their language.

James worked hard to earn his spot behind Real Madrid’s talismanic trident. He ran tirelessly across the pitch, made space in the compact opponent defense, created opportunities for his teammates, and whipped in crosses dangerously into the penalty box, _knowing_ that Cristiano will be at the end of it, nodding the ball past the scrambling keeper.

As the stadium erupted in cheers and Cristiano reeled off in celebration, he pointed to James with an arch of a brow and a knowing smile. Their teammates piled around them, Karim clapping his back and Sergio ruffling his hair, and James decided that nothing will make him happier than calling Madrid his home.

~~

Cristiano’s accent was decidedly Portuguese, his syllables earthy along the edges despite the ease at which they rolled off his tongue. Karim was less fluent in Spanish, and he tended to mumble the phrases he was unsure of, his words prolonged in a distinctive drawl that seemed to embody his aloof mannerisms. Toni spoke with an artificial preciseness, careful and deliberate in his meticulous translation, but what James found most interesting was the way the German cleared his throat in finality, a simple yet irrefutable signal for the conversation to end. Isco articulated his words with the casual fluidity of any native Spanish speaker. His voice itself wasn’t remarkable—neither silver, nor shrill—but James liked how his syllables danced, almost mirroring the way his feet danced as he dribbled past defenders on the football field—clever, unpredictable, tricky.

Isco never slept when they traveled, irrespective of how late into the night or how gruesome an away match might have been. After a hard-earned win against Celta de Vigo, the bus carrying James and his teammates drifted in stony silence, with the exception of the small Spaniard a few seats behind the Colombian, prattling next to an exhausted Dani Carvajal.

James liked the mischief in Isco’s laughter and the jubilation in his voice, his banters insightful, witty, and _endless_ when he found himself in the mood. James listened from afar and smiled in secret, wishing he was Isco’s audience rather than Dani, who had been on the brink of sleep before the engine of the bus even rumbled to life.

Two weeks passed before they play another away match, and when James finally found a seat next to Isco on their return from Villarreal, Isco fell usually quiet, and James felt like a small child again, struggling to find words beneath his stutter.

~~

Twenty minutes into their Champions League match against Manchester City, James felt a twinge in his left calf that forced him to stay down after drawing a foul. A City defender kicked the ball out as Real Madrid’s medical team rushed to their Colombian star. James saw Isco warming up by the byline, just as he limped off the field.

Isco was easy to overlook—younger, smaller, and less celebrated than some of his international teammates at Real Madrid. Spain was the only country he had played for, the only country he knew, but even for the players with whom he trained alongside, he managed to surprise in one way or another.

James found Isco mesmerizing the way he danced and dazzled, playing beautiful, _beautiful_ football that James could not tear his eyes away from. It left the Colombian restless and wanting on the sidelines, desperate for movement despite the ache in his leg that undoubtedly would require weeks to heal.

James wished they could play together, although he knew they rarely will. They preferred the same position—between the wingers, behind the striker—and a rivalry seemed so predictable, so tantalizing that the media couldn’t help but wet their lips to the prospect, like coyotes before a feast.

One afternoon, as James rested in his living room with ice strapped to his injured leg, he caught a fragment of a post-match interview where Isco stood before the flashing cameras, after providing two assists against Getafe.

“A very special moment for you because of James’ injury, is it not?” a reporter asked, his face off-screen, “It’s an opportunity so that you can keep the starting role. Do you see it like this too?”

Isco furrowed his brows, his lips pressed to a small grimace. He looked small the way the camera was angled, looming over him as his back faced the wall.

“Special for a teammate to get injured?” He shook his head. “I do not agree. It’s fucked up that James got injured because he is a player that gives a lot, scored a lot of goals, provides a lot of assists. He is someone important for us. Let’s hope he recovers as soon as possible.”

~~

They were friends, the way everyone was friends when playing for the same football club, but they had never been close, never shared inside jokes, never met outside of football without other friends to buffer their differences.

“James is actually from James Bond.”

Isco laughed, “I don’t believe it. This doesn’t sound real.”

“And David is from the Bible.”

“King David? The shepherd king?”

“Yeah.”

“ _James David Rodr_ _íguez Rubio_ ,” Isco teased, mimicking a Colombian accent which sounded foreign and over-exaggerated in his liquid Spanish. “The slayer of giants!”

James shoved Isco’s shoulder, and the Spaniard laughed, nudging the Colombian back with a prod of an elbow. It was a strange place for them to strike up a conversation, in the empty parking lot by their training ground hours after practice. Most of their teammates had left by now, but James and Isco remained, leaning against the Colombian’s black Audi and chatting about nothing in particular. Their latest topic of conversation fell whimsically on the origins of their names.

“What about yours?” James asked.

Isco pinched together his brows, eyes fixed to the horizon where the setting sun limned dark pillars of clouds with rings of gold and crimson. “Francisco, named after the Spanish dictator.”

“Come on,” James sighed, as Isco proceeded to giggle at his own joke.

“I don’t know,” the Spaniard considered briefly, before admitting. “ _Francisco de Asís_ , if I have to guess. My parents were religious at some point.”

For James, the name brought back memories of afternoons spent in the chapel as a boy, waiting for his turn to approach the confessional. The room was quiet with the exception of whispered prayers from bowed heads, as sinners recounted their sins. Stained glass windows filtered the natural light, illuminating the small, rustic chapel in crystalline reds, blues, and greens. James remembered the image of _San Francisco de Asís_ with sorrowful eyes, holding a white dove between his pierced palms.

“He was the first saint to get the stigmata,” Isco said, “Pretty badass, if I say so myself. But not as badass as slaying a giant with only a slingshot.”

Isco opened his hands before them, and James fought the temptation to run a finger along the lines and dips of his palms.

“The story of David was one of my favorites growing up,” James admitted, “Whenever I felt too small—like I didn’t stand a chance against bigger players, bigger teams. But now, at Real Madrid, I—I just don’t know—”

“It’s harder to fight the giant,” Isco finished his thought, as they both looked towards the distance where their city met the sky. “When you don’t know what the giant is.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever to update! everything about james makes me sad, including this fic hahaha. someone who actually follows bayern, please tell me how he's doing...please tell me he's happy!
> 
> i also started more fics than i could handle, so it has been a struggle keeping up. this fic should be a wrap up with 1-2 more chapters, so hopefully, i can have it all done before the new year! 
> 
> thanks for reading, as always! comments are loved xx

After a hard-earned win against Valencia, James found himself sitting on the couches of _Gabana_ , wedged between his two captains. He sipped at his beer, grinning hazily at the incandescent dance floor where some of their more energetic teammates continued to dance into the night.

Alcohol can make some people honest, some people brave. It can lay your soul bare and string your words together into songs that only hearts can sing. When they drank, Sergio spoke wisdom, and Marcelo spoke poetry.

“Stars that combine form constellations,” Marcelo slurred as he raised an outstretched palm to the ceiling of the jubilant night club, “They forge history, they write their own tales of heros and glory, but only stars that string together can tell their stories, so tell me, _Jamesito_ , is Orion still Orion with one less star in his belt?”

James thought briefly before answering, “Yes.”

“True, _hermano_ ,” Marcelo laughed, “He would still be Orion, but he would not be the same. The other stars will carry his sword and shield, but nothing can replace the star that was lost.”

“So what should Orion do then?” James smiled, humoring his Brazilian friend, but it was Sergio who responded to his question instead.

“He carries on without,” the Spaniard said, downing the remains of his drink, “Which is the moral of the story, I think? Perseverance? Unless Marcelo just wanted to talk about stars.”

But by then, Marcelo had abandoned their conversation entirely, tapping his knee and singing loudly to a party remix of _Duele el Corazón_ . _“Si te vas_ _también me voy, si me das yo también te doy, mi amor, bailamos hasta las diez, hasta que duelan los pies_ _.”_

“You need to be tough in this line of work,” Sergio said, “You need to be thick-skinned.”

“I know.” James may be young, but he had been a footballer all his life. He carried the hope of his country. “I understand.”

“And don’t listen to the media,” the Spaniard emphasized, “Don’t bother reading any of that stuff. If you have a problem—just _talk_. Talk to the team, to us.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Rivalry, antagonism, locker room feuds—those are the kind of stories that sell.”

“Is this about Cristiano?” James laughed, remembering an earlier incident in the week, when he had joined Cristiano’s training group without realizing it was full, only to be expelled moments after. It had been nothing really, but the photographs did capture the look of confusion and embarrassment on his face. Cristiano made an effort to dispel any rumors the next day, slinging an arm over James right at the beginning of practice, smiling and pointing to the cameras in the distance.

“I don’t have a problem with Cristiano,” the Colombian insisted, “And I know better than to believe all the nonsense out there.”

“I’m not talking about Cristiano.”

Sergio tilted his beer in the direction of the dance floor, and James followed his line of vision to find Isco swaying between bodies, laughing and dancing with Dani, Lucas, and the other young Spaniards on the team.

Later that evening, James and Sergio shared a cab ride home. James thought about Isco, emerging from a stunning campaign with the Spain U21s, brimming with energy, talent, and boundless potential. James remembered of his own World Cup, the shining golden ball trophy glistening in the cabinet of his parents’ home, the dense weight of the pen that sealed his future to Real Madrid. 80 million felt too great of a number to even comprehend, and suddenly, the crest over their chests felt more like a pressed bruise.

“How did you get used to the pressure?” James asked without preamble, “How do you make the weight of the expectations go away?”

“You don’t,” Sergio murmured, his eyes closed, “It’s just there now. It’s something you live with going forward.”

~~

“Be my warm-up partner today.”

James turned to find Isco smiling at him, his breath white and misty as it mingled with the frigid winter air.

“Dani’s mad at me again,” the small Spaniard explained, “And left me for Nacho.”

“Oh,” James said. _Beggars can’t be choosers_ , he supposed.

“Unless I’m taking away your chance to stretch with Cristiano,” Isco looked around secretly, grinning in mischief, “Your idol.”

“No,” James laughed, feeling warmth rising to his cheeks. “Shut up, and stretch with me.”

“Yeah, he’s out of your league anyway.” Isco had the audacity to wink. “But I’m not.”

“No,” James smiled, “No, you’re not.”

They picked their spot by the edge of the grass, resting on their backs as they did crunches with a medicine ball, passing it between each other as they both lunged forward. Isco’s hair had gotten longer, matted against his forehead beneath his winter hat. His brows were furrowed in concentration, lashes casting long shadows over cheeks reddened from the cold and exertion. His lips parted slightly beneath a growing beard, exhaling rhythmically with each rise and fall of their monotonous routine.

“Maybe you should take it easy on Dani,” James broke the silence first.

“I was just joking around,” Isco furrowed his brows, “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Maybe he would appreciate it more, if you made jokes _with_ him, rather than _about_ him.”

Isco giggled as he fell back onto the grass, amused by the accuracy of that statement. “Yeah, I guess that would fix things, but it’s hard _not_ to joke about him. He’s so easy to piss off.”

“You lose warm-up partners that way,” James pointed out.

“He will forgive me, though. There’s no one else like me.”

Isco laughed then, because he obviously meant it as a joke, and James laughed with him, even if he wanted to tell Isco that it was true.

“I talk...out of my ass,” Isco explained, and James could detect a twinge of sadness in his voice, hidden beneath the remnants of laughter, “I get ahead of myself, my thoughts—they flash too quickly. And I have no filters, so I just say everything out loud, as they are. I know I should apologize.”

“I have that problem too,” James admitted, and Isco grimaced at his response, eyeing the Colombian with skepticism.

“No way, you’re the least offensive person I know. Or at least, out of everyone who speaks Spanish. I’m sure Mateo can insult me in five different languages, but his Spanish is too safe.”

“No, I didn’t mean that part,” James laughed, “I was talking about my stutter, because sometimes, I think too much—too quickly—and my words can’t keep up.”

“Oh, _that_ .” Isco rolled his eyes, “You have a barely noticeable stutter that I _bet_ some girls find cute.”

“Hey,” James protested, feigning insult, “I had to go through years of speech therapy to get this far.”

“At least you had speech therapy.” Isco’s eyes glinted with a familiar jest, “There’s no therapy for sounding like an asshole.”

“You don’t sound like an asshole,” James laughed as he dropped the medicine ball into the Spaniard’s lap. “And I don’t think you actually have a problem.”

~~

Toni did not engage in small talk often, but when he found himself in the mood, his choice of topics were exceptionally diverse.

“There is a global language you know? And I don’t mean English. It was created with the intention of being universal.”

James liked listening to Toni speak about his interests, his thoughtful dissection of whatever happened to catch his attention, his careful Spanish constructed from foreign syllables. Whenever Toni spoke, James could almost envision the ratchet wheels of his brilliant mind clicking into place.

“It’s called Esperanto. A Polish doctor created it in the late 1800s.”

Esperanto is a Latin-based language, so it would be more familiar for some than others. Dr. Zamenhof rendered it simple and easy to learn, so that it can facilitate international communication and perhaps, even overcome the natural indifference of mankind, which he believed to be a by product of a failure to understand. Needless to say, he had high expectations for his universal language.

“Languages do segregate mankind,” Toni acknowledged, “But it’s not the most divisive barrier, at least, I don’t think so.”

“But they don’t teach Esperanto in schools,” James pointed out, “I don’t know anyone who speaks Esperanto.”

“It’s only useful if every school taught it and if everyone knows it. Otherwise, it’s just another obscure language—which, I believe it will continue to be, unfortunately.”

Esperanto strived to erase the irregularities endemic to other languages, to simplify the sounds and sentence structures, to remove colloquialisms that often plagued learners of new languages. It didn’t seem like a bad idea, on paper.

“But that sounds boring though,” James said, “A language so structured and simple. A language without irregularities.”

Toni rolled his eyes. “It’s meant to be efficient for communication, to get simple thoughts across. No one is expecting you to write poetry in Esperanto. No one is expecting you to fall in love.”

~~

They lose 2-1 away to Real Betis on a cold, raining day in Seville. It was a frustrating, physical game that left the team bruised and exhausted, knowing that they deserved more than what the scoreline showed. The loss of three valuable points will certainly haunt them, perhaps as soon as the following evening, where a win in Barcelona might allow their bitter rivals to overtake Real Madrid at the top of the table.

James leaned his head against the window inside their bus, watching raindrops collect before rolling down the glass, leaving behind trails of white like the icy tails of comets. Karim sat next to him with his eyes closed, music blaring from his headphones, detached from the outside world. James didn’t blame him.

They never quite fell into rhythm today, nor did they during the match against Bilbao prior. James clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling lethargy building like molasses in his bones, and he couldn’t completely chalk up his recent poor form to his previous injury either. At least, not anymore.

Isco sat a few rows back, whispering mutedly among his friends—Dani, Nacho, Alvaro, Lucas—the next generation of domestic talent who promised hope for an aging Spain. They shared a common language, a common goal for both club and country, and a common friendship forged from years of familiarity.

But for James—despite how the _Madrileños_ had welcomed him since his arrival to Spain, despite how stars like Cristiano, Sergio, and Karim had offered friendship and camaraderie—nothing could quite shake away the loneliness of being in a country that he could not call home.

And in that moment, James felt young and lost again, as the faceless giants of football pulled and tugged at his sleeves, jettisoning him to distant lands of Portugal, Monaco, or Spain—where the comforts of his beloved Cúcuta felt oceans away.

**Author's Note:**

> Jamisco has been my muse for the past three years, and with James' departure (loan, but still) from Madrid, this will likely be my last fic for this pairing. Hopefully, I will find the inspiration and time to finish it, but I feel like they deserve a farewell fic after all the joy/writing inspiration they have brought me :')
> 
> Thanks for reading as always, comments are forever appreciated!


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